


Snow Storms and Winter Winds

by Writings_of_a_Hufflepuff



Series: And Bluebells Gleamed on Mountain Wild [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, F/M, Fluff, Snow, Snowed In, Victorian, We love him, he is a soft gentle man, in the us, its winter, so the setting is 1896, there's a snow storm and james finds you near freezing to death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28939884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writings_of_a_Hufflepuff/pseuds/Writings_of_a_Hufflepuff
Summary: When James goes to check on his horse, Brandy, during a snow storm the last person he expects to see is you nearly collapsed in the deep snow.
Relationships: OC/Reader, Original Character/Reader, Original Male Character/Reader, james tobias moore/reader
Series: And Bluebells Gleamed on Mountain Wild [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063628
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Snow Storms and Winter Winds

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably going to be one in a collection of stories because the idea of you being stuck now with James because of a snow storm presents an amazing opportunity for ideas.
> 
> As per you can always come chat with me about my writing over at writings-of-a-hufflepuff.tumblr.com where I also post all these fics!
> 
> James is my own OC.

It is the height of winter in the woods, a whirling snowstorm has hit. So hard and so fast that each step he took felt like he was walking through a fast flowing river, the snow high on his legs, dragging at his steps. The snow could be vicious out here in the winter months, his cabin often got so much that he sometimes could not even leave the wood cabin to check on Brandy, his horse, he made sure to keep enough food and water out in case that ever happened. Being snowed in was a common occurrence during these months and every year he prepared ahead of schedule for the inevitable. He had gotten used to the inhospitable nature of the winter, the weather that sought to freeze him to death if he so much as lost his way. 

James would call it beautiful if he could actually see the world around him. The storm was so bad that he could barely see two feet in front of him, let alone admire the powdery snow glistening on the branches of trees or the way the light gleamed. There was, at this point, little light, the storm was so heavy that the sun was blocked out by thick grey clouds and howling winds. The lantern he carried did little to illuminate his way. A warm glow that could barely penetrate the thick white snowfall. 

He is bundled up warm. Heavy, thick fur coat, over layers of woollen jumpers. A knitted scarf wrapped tight around his neck and chin, hat pulled over his ears. It feels like it does little to keep him warm, but he’s only going to check on Brandy. One hand on the rope he’d attached the day previous from his front porch to the small stable he’d made for her. He knew better than to trust himself not to get turned around or lost in the short journey at the height of winter. Storms like this could be deadly. So he carefully follows the rope, letting it guide him to her. The doors are heavy in the cold, the hinges freezing over slowly, the metal detesting his request to move. But he makes his way inside and for a moment he can breathe, the snow is no longer whipping at his face and he can see his large shire shifting in her stall, unhappy with the noises outside. 

He makes sure she has warm blankets, enough hay, water and feed to last her a few days in case he can’t get out again. He gives the hefty shire a gentle pat on the neck and a soothing word, knowing she wasn’t a fan of the howling winds. He knows she dislikes being left alone, but he cannot stay out here, the weather too cold, he’d freeze overnight. As he leaves the stable, locking the door up tight to make sure Brandy doesn’t wander off in the storm or worse a wolf or bear finds its way in, he doesn’t expect to see a figure shivering and hunching in on itself on the road nearby. They look half dead already, barely able to lift a foot to move forward. 

Anyone out in this storm has a death wish and he grumbles to himself knowing that he can’t just leave them there, it would weigh heavy on his conscience, so he leaves the rope, the path he’d made for himself and trudges through the snow. Knowing that he could easily get turned around trying to help them and lose his own way. End up dead from exposure right outside his own front door. He lifts one arm up above his eyes to shield them from the snow. He decides that if he does die out here with this stranger then he’ll make their afterlife a living hell for being such an idiot and wandering about in a snowstorm during winter’s height. 

His burning annoyance and grumbling fades to rampant concern and worry when he realises it’s not just some fool out in the storm, but you. He’d recognise your hair piled high on your head, the shape of your cheeks, the blue coat you favoured so much, anywhere. It chills him more than the storm to see you begin to collapse to your knees, legs no longer able to hold you up in the storm. You’re frozen to the bone and he feels a strike of fear hit him so strong he almost collapses himself. He knows the winter is deadly, he knows your coat is not fit for a winter storm and he has no idea how long you’ve been wandering out here for. 

He picks up the pace, forcing his legs to move faster as he all but jumps through the high snow towards you. He doesn’t know why you’d be out this far from town, especially in this weather but suddenly it doesn’t matter so much as getting you inside his cabin and warm. He can ask you later, when you’re safe and well, it matters little when you’re barely moving in the high snow drifts. 

“Miss Y/N! Darlin’, what the hell are you doin’ out here?” His voice has taken on an urgency he isn’t used to as he crouches next to you, taking in the way you shiver. Your eyes are barely open. You can’t seem to answer him, your teeth chattering so harshly that he’s worried you might break your teeth. You’re ice cold when he takes a glove off to touch it to your cheek and snow clings to your hair and eyelashes like little icicles. James makes a quick decision and pushes through the weariness that his own body feels at the cold and reaches down, an arm underneath your legs as he lifts you into his arms. It is hard enough walking on his own through the high snow, but you can barely walk and he knows you need to get inside and slowly begin to warm back up. You are not light, especially not in your many layers and with the added difficulty of fighting through the snow, but he doesn’t care much for the burn in his arms or the strain in his legs, it’s not his main focus as he keeps his eyes ahead, in the direction he came from. 

He finds the rope again and follows it to his front door, the snow is getting higher and he knows once you’re inside and the door is closed, you’re likely to be stuck that way. The snow is laying thick and high and he wouldn’t be surprised if the two of you found yourselves snowed in, but that he can deal with. The involuntary shivers that shake your body so hard he instinctively pulls you tighter against his broad chest are more of a concern for him and something that makes him feel in over his head. He is not a doctor, nor is he experienced in tending to others. He hasn’t ever really had to. He’s lived a lonely existence after all.

He practically barrels through the front door, shoulder first, it bangs shut after him, but he’s not concerned about the possible dent in his wall as he sets you on the sofa in front of the fire that’s still going. Your clothes are soaked from the strength of the snow outside and he fights against everything his mother ever taught him about politeness, knowing that you needed dry clothes and not your soaked skirt and coat. All your layers are heavy with water, cold and damp, and entirely unhealthy for you to stay in.

He hunts through his wardrobe for a spare undershirt and a comfortable union suit that he knows will be much too long for you, but that is dry and comfortable and will keep your modesty intact once changed. He tries to remind himself that he isn’t being lecherous or improper, you’re freezing, most likely hypothermic and if he doesn’t get you warmed up slowly you might not wake back up. He still feels the tell tale warmth that flushes his cheeks, ears, and neck as he carefully peels your clothes off, placing the sopping wet ones on the floor by the fire. He does his best not to look at the exposed skin, but simply look at your face or over your shoulder at the fabric of the settee as he gets you redressed as quickly as possible in the dry clothes he has found. They’re much too long on your arms and legs and he has to look to get you in them at points, but despite the discomfort he feels at doing something that feels too intimate for mere acquaintances, potentially friends, he is relieved to get you in something dry and warm. Your skin is far too cold for his liking and the sooner some warmth returns to you the sooner he’ll be able to breathe. 

He tries not to think too hard about the corset on his floor or the various clothing pieces, or the skin that he’d been privy to. It’s not appropriate and he can almost hear his late mother’s voice berating him, at the same time he knows he has to do it. For your health, your safety. He pushes the discomfort aside, hanging the wet clothes over a rack near the hearth to dry, before searching through a chest for his spare blankets. 

He wraps you in them carefully, making sure each finger and toe is covered. He doesn’t want to place you in a warm bath or too close to the fire, he’s worried about warming you too quickly, your body going into shock at the temperature change, so blankets will have to do. He presses the back of a freckled hand to your forehead, chilly still, but warming. The fact you’re beginning to make noise reassures him that you’re getting better and not in fact getting worse. 

He knows only time will tell, so he leaves you there as he shrugs off his heavy coat, scarf and hat, hanging them on the hook by the door before working on dinner. He’s freezing himself, but now he’s inside the toasty air of his cabin he knows he’ll stop feeling the chill soon. Soup sounds nice, he thinks. He still has some fresh vegetables from before the weather suddenly turned and if you wake up later he can reheat some on the wood burning stove, enough to warm you inside and fill your stomach. Soup sounds nice. He thinks he might have some of the loaf that he made a few days past still, not quite as nice as when it was first made, but better. He decides he’ll save it for you, you’ll need the little pleasure more than him if you come to. 

He looks back over at you every few minutes as he chops carrots, potatoes, leeks, squash. Making sure your chest is still rising, that you’re still breathing. He is still feeling that same panic deep in his chest, you’re not out of the proverbial woods and he is petrified that you might not make it out. He likes you. He doesn’t know you as well as he could after 2 years, but he likes you. You’re one of the few reasons he ever still goes into town. He enjoys your smile, your soft gentle nature, telling your students his stories while you watch with a raised eyebrow and a soft smile. He enjoys your company when he gets it and he enjoys you. It would be...it would be less than ideal for you to be bested by the weather and he would...he struggles to admit it to even himself but he would be devastated if you died. 

The soup is boiling over the stove by the time you begin to truly move, you shift on his sofa, amongst the blankets. Little groans leave your throat and he’s hovering over you unsure what to do. Your face is scrunched, brow furrowed deeply and lips turned down, but you don’t open your eyes or speak, you just lie there clearly in discomfort. He tucks the blankets around you, making sure you’re still fully covered despite your shifting and with a sigh James sits on the floor, back against the foot of the sofa as he waits. 

He was generally a loner, James didn’t tend to have visitors or enjoy the company of others. He preferred the company of animals, especially his horse Brandy, but there were a couple of exceptions to that rule. 

One was children. Their curious nature, their bluntness, the innocent way they viewed the world, the curiosity they had of him rather than fear. He had a soft spot for them, they made him smile and he never felt out of place around them. Had he not been so nervous around others, he’d have liked his own brood by now...but women were generally intimidated by him. His scars, his stature, being so tall and so broad he knew he looked scary to most and his quiet nature and permanent frown did nothing to quell the fears of women in town, no matter how many times he was helpful or kind. He just seemed to scare them off. 

Another exception to his rule was you. You had never been intimidated by him. The first time you’d met, he’d been lugging a whole stag over his shoulder to the butcher, a whole 200 kilos and you’d simply smiled at him and asked him if he’d been out hunting. He’d grunted something at you, unsure how to talk to someone so pretty because you were pretty. You’d seemed not to mind and your smile had widened when one of your students had latched onto his leg recognising him as ‘Uncle James’ even though he was most definitely not her uncle, rather he simply helped the family with firewood a few times a year. You had always been kind and gentle with him, over time the grunts turned into words and from words to full sentences and he found himself opening up to someone for the first time since his parents had passed on. He never realised how lonely he was until he regularly talked to you. He went from going into town maybe once every few weeks, to going multiple times a week, just to see you, always with an excuse. That he was fetching something from the general store or had a hide to deliver or some other errand to run. In truth he went to catch even a glimpse of you, of your soft smile and glowing nature. 

“Ugh..” Everything hurts. That’s your first conscious thought, that every part of your body aches in a unique sort of way that’s hard to describe. Your skin feels like it’s covered in cold pins and needles. You feel both warm and cold at the same time, the sort of burning on your skin that only comes from sticking your hand in a pile of snow. 

You're greeted by warm light when you finally blink your eyes open, trying to ease yourself up into a sitting position. A large warm pair of hands come to your shoulders and back, easing you up to prop you against some pillows. Your surroundings are cosy, wooden cabin walls, dark wood furniture, blankets, pillows. It’s homey and it eases some of your anxiety, even more so when the figure helping you to sit comes into view.

James Moore is knelt beside the sofa where you’re sitting, worried brown eyes flitting over your features. You feel instantly safe and secure, James has always made you feel that way. He is a unique sort of man, one who appears physically imposing, intimidating. Between his broad frame, the scars on his skin, over his eye, and the sheer size of him, he cuts an impressive figure. Always easy to spot in a crowd and often parting a crowd simply because people find him scary. You know better. He’s so incredibly gentle that it’s almost contradictory, that a man so gentle could be so large, that a man so intimidating could be so soft. 

“Mr Moore?” There’s a blank in your memory. You remember leaving town, deciding to make the long walk out to see one of your students who had been sick. You wanted to make sure they were doing okay, especially as the weather was beginning to turn for the worst. Then you remember the snow coming down hard, by this point you were ages out from town and in the woods, little in the way of houses or shelter. You’d kept going, but changed direction knowing you were near James’ house, nearer to his than to your students, you’d made for his instead. Your memory is hazy after that, cold snow up to your knees, frozen toes in your shoes and a shiver so strong that it nearly knocked you over. 

A warm freckled hand is pressed to your brow and James seems displeased with whatever he finds, pulling the blankets tighter over your shoulders. 

“Nice to see you awake, Miss...I thought...well, it didn’t look so good there for a while.” It had been hours. He’d eaten his own dinner. The soup was cold on the stove top, the fire had been tended to, the sun had set, and the snow had piled so high that there was no way he was going to be able to open the door. You were officially snowed in. After the first few hours he’d worried you wouldn’t ever wake up. A deep relief fills him at the sight of your open eyes and the sound of your voice, he almost felt like he could cry. He wanted to hold you tight, but pulled the blankets around you instead. It wasn’t appropriate. You weren’t family or husband and wife. So he stopped himself. 

“What...what happened?” 

“I found ya out by the road, frozen to the bone. What the hell were you thinkin’ comin’ out in a snowstorm like this?” His voice raises just a fraction and the panic rings clear. You reach a shaky, tingling hand and grasp his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

“...I was...I wanted to check on a student and I didn’t...I didn’t realise that a storm was going to hit. I...thank you, James.”

If it’s possible he feels himself tense more from the sound of his given name coming from your lips. You have always been supremely proper with him, you had never called him James. You always called him Mr Moore, always treated him with the perfect level of propriety and distance despite the warm smiles. Always so aware of where you stood as an unmarried woman and where he stood as an unmarried man. He likes the sound of his name on your lips, the way your voice seems to curl around each syllable. 

“I...I was worried...Y/N.” He does you the courtesy of using your own name, the familiarity is unfamiliar to him and he can feel a flush high on his cheeks, coursing over his neck and rising to the tips of his ears at using your name. It shouldn’t spark a reaction in him, but it does because it’s you. Because there is no doubt in his mind that he has a great deal of affection, perhaps even love for you, after these 2 years of knowing you. Because your name is something sweet and soft in his mouth, because it feels like some sort of guilty pleasure to speak it. “You were near hypothermic, you...you could’a died, darlin’.” 

You watch him quietly, knowing that he’s right. You had made a terribly stupid decision. You knew that winter storms always hit around this time of year, you knew how bad they could get and still you’d gone out on your own, ill equipped and unprepared. What made you feel guilty wasn’t that you’d done something potentially dangerous to yourself, but rather that you’d caused him to worry. James was a private person, his feelings were kept under lock and key, yet right now they were so plain to see and that they pulled at your heart. You had caused him unnecessary amounts of worry. 

“You must be hungry, I’ll heat up some soup for you. I saved you some bread.” He’s lighting a match and setting the stove alight before you can protest, big cast iron pot of soup on top left to boil and heat as he finds out the loaf of bread, unwraps it from it’s coverings and slices it. He doesn’t scrimp on the bread, he doesn’t offer you one slice for your soup but damn near half a loaf and it is heart warming, the kindness, as he plates up your food on a wooden tray and gently places it in your lap. You don’t know this, but he has even picked out his nicest soup spoon, the one that just seems to make soup taste ten times better. 

It is tasty and warms you from the inside. It should be uncomfortable having him watch you eat, but it’s not. You know he’s simply concerned for you, worried about your wellbeing, worried that you might keel over at any moment. He watches you to make sure you eat, that you are well, that you are truly getting better. You eat the soup and even the majority of the bread, he’d found a slab of butter, and there had never been anything more wonderful than buttery bread dipped into homemade soup. It’s domestic and you could get used to it, to James making you dinner and wrapping you in warm blankets, but it’s not that simple. You shouldn’t even be alone together, but you are. Everything about this is breaking the rules your mother always taught you, the rules you’re sure his mother taught him. 

“James...I...how did I…” You gesture to the change of clothing, you had only noticed once the tray was removed from your lap and put aside to be tidied, that you were in fact not in your own clothes. You felt warmth fill your body, your cheeks felt like they were on fire. James’ own blushed a deep bright red, his freckles almost blending in. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, biting into his bottom lip anxiously. His eyes don’t meet your own.

“I didn’t...I didn’t look, I just...you were freezin’ and I had...I had to change yer clothes. I’m...I’m sorry.”

“James…” Despite protest from your body, you rise onto stumbling and unsteady feet. He’s there in an instant, hands around your waist to hold you steady, your own fall onto those wide shoulders. “You don’t have to apologise. You’re probably the only reason I'm not dead right now...I trust you. I know you’d never do anything untoward. You’re _a good_ man.”

“Still...it ain’t right. I’m not yer husband.” You wish he was. In that moment, you wish he was your husband because you know he’d be good to you. He would look after you, care for you, share the burdens of life with you. He’d never raise his voice at you, he’d never raise a hand. You know you’d have a good life with him, a happy life. You can see yourself falling in love with him. But, he’s right. He’s not your husband. 

“No, you’re not. But I'd much rather you do the improper thing and save my life then leave me out in the snow to die. You have nothing to be sorry for. You have nothing to be guilty for. Do you understand me?” Your hands are cupping the sides of his face, thumbs brushing through the red of his beard as you tilt his face down to look at you. He is so much taller than you, that it would be easy for him to avoid looking at you, but you won’t have it. You force him to look upon you, to understand the sincerity of your words. That you hold nothing against him, that you don’t want him to feel guilty for helping you, for doing what had to be done. 

  
“...Yes...I...I understand.” His voice is so quiet, like he’s talking in some reverent place, some holy space where raising his voice would be disrespectful. He can’t bring himself to talk louder, there is something about the way your eyes capture him, the awe which he feels filling his chest at your understanding, your touch. He...no one has touched him tenderly and with any sort of affection since his parents passed, it was something he didn’t realise he missed or needed until now. This moment where he’s leaning into your touch without realising, hoping you never pull away but knowing that at some point you will.

You don’t pull away. Not right away. Not even after a minute. You hold his face in your palms and stroke your thumbs over his skin, noting where it’s rough, the scratch of his beard, the scars, the many freckles that cover every inch of his skin. You know you should pull away, that would be polite, but you don’t want to. He is warm, human and so starved of touch that the way his eyes flutter closed has your heart aching in your chest. 

“I...I should let you rest, Y/N…” His large palms encircle your wrists, enclosing them completely as he gently pulls your hands from his face. James hates that he has to, but you are a temptation to his morals, his own code of propriety and he needs to remove your touch from his skin before he does something truly improper. 

“You're probably right…” You are truly exhausted. There is a shake in your bones that only comes from physical weakness after an ordeal. James is careful as he leads you by the arm towards the cabin’s bedroom. 

He only has one bed and he will gladly give it up for you, knowing that you need it more than him and knowing that it is only polite to let you, his guest, take the bed. It is covered in knitted blankets and furs, so many layers that he’d prepared for the turning coldness. There’s a homeliness about this room too, something gentle, soft. Photographs line the walls, you presume they are of his parents and a younger version of himself. 

“You can take the bed. I’ll sleep out on the sofa.” He doesn’t think twice about offering it up, he knows he’d toss and turn all night in his own bed if you didn’t take it. You are still unwell, still recovering from exposure to the elements and the thought of you on an old settee with just a few blankets sits uneasily with him. 

“James…”

“Please. Ya need the bed more than me and I...I ain’t...I wouldn’t be able to rest if you were out on that settee.” You want to argue with him, but you’re exhausted and the bed looks warm and inviting. So you concede with a nod of your head and let him help you under the covers. Like some sort of mother hen, he tucks you in and makes sure you’re comfortable and places a glass of water by your bedside, turning down the oil lamp. You wonder if he’d do the same if you were married. Would he help you to bed and make sure you’re comfortable before locking up the house? Would he sit beside you and read his book into the late hours? 

He fills the doorway, a dark silhouette, the light of the living area from behind him shrouding him in shadow. The bed is warm and cosy, each blanket weighs down on you, makes you feel secure, and your eyes are already beginning to blink closed. 

“Goodnight, James…”

“G’night, Sweetheart.” He leaves you in darkness, pulling the door closed behind him and providing you with privacy. It’s that consideration, that desire to follow the rules, that endears you even more towards him. There are many men in the world, you know, who would take advantage of this opportunity. An isolated cabin, an unmarried woman alone and unchaperoned, a storm outside stopping anyone from venturing out. But, James is a good man. He is so utterly good that even the necessary acts, the things he does to help you, he is reluctant to do out of respect for you.

It’s the lingering drawl of his voice, the woodsy smell on his bed sheets, the ghost of a gentle but respectful touch that lulls you to sleep. You are safe here, with him. You know that without a doubt.


End file.
